Secrets in my parents' garage: An exchange
Grief: Part 2 of 5
I am indebted to my friend Brian Funke—one of my favorite poets on Substack (check out his Poetry & Process; it’s beautiful). Because this whole exercise was his idea. He invited me to create this collaboration on grief: What if we pair up 100-word micro essays from you with my poems and create a short series on grief, he suggested.
I loved the idea! And here we are.
He shared a lovely poem yesterday, and here’s the first of my three micro-essays responding to his poem. After my three micro-essay posts, Brian will offer another new poem to end the series.
SO, this will run in a quick series of daily micro posts this week. Two of Brian’s beautiful poems will bookend three micro essays by me.
I hope you will read all five posts—no more than a couple of minutes each—and tell us what you think.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
Secrets in my parents’ garage
(100 words)
I’m outside what used to be my parents’ home. A flat in a three storey building among a row of similar ones. It’s been over two years since they both passed. Still I contract.
The flat is on rent. But I’m here to clean up their garage. This garage has two large, rickety metal doors conjoined with an oversized metal lock. Someone brings a key.
The doors are parted open. I’m looking into a dark cavern, the walls of which are black, steel trunks hiding remnants. On the cavern floor stepping stones rise to tunnel me back to my childhood.
-reena
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